Alan Corkish interviews Roelof Broekman, Erbacce, Issue 27, 2012 

Alan: Hello Roelof and welcome to Erbacce. I think it’s fair to say that your work is not widely published which is something that surprised us when we read the handful of poems you sent us initially; personally I was impressed by the deeply lyrical nature of them, the poems seemed to possess internal tunes... Does that make sense to you? 

Roelof: Here is a secret for you: already when I was about 3 years old, I would sing myself to sleep, while hopping up and down on my bed, in a language that one could consider to be a kind of English. I probably picked it up from the radio or the television and unconsciously it stuck in my brain and began to live a life on its own. My father once secretly recorded such a routine, and when I heard it back later in my life, it was lyrical and musical, although nonsense. When I was older I was able to compose music and songs in my head, in silence. Later on I worked as a composer and some of my songs got played on national radio here in Holland. Basically there seems to be a musical environment in my brain and body. So far so good: but how did it become part of my writing process? Well, I have to admit that I don’t aim for an internal tune. For me, the initial idea, that later is further developed in the rewriting process, is the most dear to me: I will always keep that cerebral line as tight as possible. The eventual outcome, with its lyrical or musical content, involves that same state of mind with which I’m probably natural born.
Apart from this personal view, I must say that (pop) music, radio and television here in Holland have always been dominated by American and English stuff. And last but not least: the Dutch language can be beautiful when used rightly and written down, but once you start to speak or sing, well, what can I say…it’s just not the same as English. Still, your opinion about the lyrical and musical nature seems to stand even in Dutch, they tell me. 
The fact that my work is yet not widely published has to do with a certain prudence from my side, as well with the fact that my output, creatively, contains composed music, video art (with images and composed music solely made by me), a novel that is in the rewriting process for a publisher, and keeping contact with the normal world. Beside that: I have taken a winding road to be able to create work I think is as strong as possible. I think people who take time to read, listen or look at your work deserve nothing less. When I work, it's in full concentration. I take my time. Right now, for example, my video art is being selected for festivals all over Europe and further. I seem to be on track. Interest for my poetry in Holland is rising.

Alan: I should have made it clear from the outset that you write in Dutch then translate your own work. Video art and music come as no surprise to me; initially your words seem simple but slowly a kaleidoscope of meanings emerge... I wonder who influences you?

Roelof: ‘Influence’ is a dangerous place to be. Of course, one needs to learn to read and write on the shoulders of the ones that preceded you. But the next step is to let them go and try to forget, so that only some feathers of their wings remain in your system. My ability to withdraw in a kind of concentration, in search of an original idea, with the private words that it needs to become reality in the form of say a poem, is needed to overcome direct influences.
That doesn’t save me from being influenced in the end, and maybe more than I will admit. I always have a list of wonderful people that pass my mind and daily life now and then, and although some of them have no direct link to poetry, I think there is poetry in their work. The composer Pierre Boulez once said that what he needed in a piece of art to keep his interest is that it has to have layers of information, that it asks for a certain participation of the viewer to reveal itself. In his case his biggest influences where Paul Klee (painter) and Stéphane Mallarmé (poet). 
For me personally, I find it very attractive when an artist is able to draw me into some private world he created. Let me give some examples: Alexander Sokurov (film-maker) who showed how spoken words and slow revealing images can capture ones attention in such a way that you eventually get overwhelmed by the intensity of simplicity, and taking the time to let you become part of his dreamlike world… for instance in his ‘elegy of a journey’, but it’s everywhere in his work. Elliot Carter (composer) who developed the independent routings of different instruments in an ensemble: he started to see instruments as individuals with their own needs and willpower as an equivalent of the modern democratic society. Anders Weberg (video artist) who uses different layers of images in a way that as soon as you have uncovered one you are already in the next image. Fernando Pessoa (poet) who wanders through his unique mind and lets you become part of it. Hans Andreus (Dutch poet) with whom I feel a personal bond. Gerrit Kouwenaar (Dutch poet) whose poetry I have to read again and again to be able to filter out any sense. Sonic Youth (rockband) for their brave unique position in a dollar dominated art-form… and more: Claude Vivier (composer), Anton Corbijn (Dutch photographer), Ingmar Bergman, Woody Allen, Black Sabbath (mark I), Hal Hartley (film-maker), Cesare Pavese, Sylvia Plath, Wislawa Szymborska, John Frusciante. All of them original minds. Independent.

Alan: You certainly have many of these ‘dangerous’ influences... they don’t seem to be harming your poetic eye in any way. But you are speaking expansively; can you tell me specifically how you come to write poetry? 

Roelof: Maybe ‘undaunted’ would also be a good characterisation for the aforementioned influences. An artist in any form should be that. 
Hans Andreus (Dutch poet) said this about writing poetry: ‘it’s not a profession but a state of mind’. That state of mind overwhelmed me when I was 17 years old, on my way home. Suddenly a philosophical issue passed my mind, complete and clear: believe me, it was not something I was occupied with at the time. I went home and wrote the whole idea down. That was my first encounter with unannounced information. The next step was a program on television about poetry. I saw it and completely understood what was said. It came as a surprise since our household contained enough literature works to fill the Albert hall but, partly because of unenthusiastic language teachers (and poetry was not part of the school system here), I hadn’t dared to touch books with poetry. After that program on television I went upstairs to my room and filled a page with my first poem. In one breath. I was surprised but anxious at the same time. This was not something I could hold in my hand and observe. I had no control over it, other then sitting down, grab a pen and write. I think it was the reason for a recoil for a while. I think I had to develop more personality first to canalize it. When I studied at university I published some poetry in a student magazine. It was welcomed with envy by some people, misunderstood by others, and maybe one or two persons who instantly became interested in me. I think it confused me. So I decided to keep it for myself. For a long time.
In a lecture she once gave, Wislawa Szymborska said that Joseph Brodsky was the only poet she knew who would bravely called himself a poet. I think it takes a certain courage to do so. Undaunted.
Probably one of the main issues in my work is the friction between the powerful and the sublime, which seems apparent in my list of people above. I like to play with the idea of a certain finesse in brutality. I don’t write much about the flowers in the fields or the wind in my hair…but it’s even separated from social reality. It’s more of a forceful dreamlike state. 
When I was young I had this dream that came back once in a while. I flew through the dark universe, and all felt good, but suddenly an overwhelmingly big matter (indescribable, abstract) approached me and tried to suffocate me, and then, within a split second, the tiniest imaginable matter took over, and although I tried to reach it, it became smaller and smaller, untouchable, until it disappeared. It gave me an immense sense of loneliness, but it felt strangely good, or at least attracted me in some sort of way.
The main reason why I think it is important to write and publish poetry has to deal with the way the human mind works: mainly by copying. It is precisely that which a poet has to overcome: to give ground to the fact that a human being in the first place is unique and creative. A poet gives account of that basic human principle that a lot of us have lost on their way to become reliable citizens. Poetry can handle anything in life. But with that the poet manoeuvres himself to vulnerable ground. That’s a wonderful tension, by the way.

Alan: Your replies are amazingly complex and revealing; thank you for that but we need to end there to leave plenty of room for your poems. One final thing; it’s become something of a tradition that our featured poet selects the colour for the ‘weed’ on our cover; what shall it be?

Oh no, you can ask me anything…but colour is my weak spot. Well, I have a dark blue wall in my room, like a night-sky. I love that. I love the night.